Exhausted as we were this morning, we felt a slight tug at our heartstrings as the taxi driver took us to the airport. Before that though, I tried in vain to get my mom one last cannolli, but it was too early for any of the bakeries to have them yet. I did, however, stop into the corner supermarket and pick up travel packages of Kleenex. Kleenex you may ask? Well, yes - the brand that we've come to know and love here is just a tad different in Europe. Thicker and with a little embroidered edge, they won Rosemarie's heart and she fell in love with them. (They came in handy all week as we had to constantly wipe the sweat from some orifice on our bodies.) When she runs out of them, I guess I'll have to go back there and pick some up.
Despite being told to not tip the cab driver, I was about to unload the remaining Euros to the cute little chauffeur, but he took off as soon as I gave him the required fare. Early, as usual, we got to the counter and discovered that Lufthansa wanted to book us on a new flight out of Munich that would get us into Boston two hours earlier.
As if an omen of the events to come, the ticket agent had computer problems printing our boarding passes and we passed the time marveling at the thinness of the girl next to her who seemed to almost get swallowed up by the amount of hair on her head. Finally getting her computer to work, our agent printed our passes and checked in all our bags. I was tired and sweaty and had little patience to deal with any of our luggage, so I checked every piece.
Waiting for our flight to Munich, there was an adorable fat faced German baby in the crowd. Babies love me and it smiled, but it was an evil creature waiting to erupt the second it got on the regional jet. Sitting on the plane, I noticed all the luggage being removed and as the time ticked away, we discovered that there was one suitcase without a passenger, so the ground crew removed everything to look for and eject the rogue valise. Our connection was getting tighter and tighter and as the plane finally took off, the fat faced baby unleashed his rage. For one solid hour, his lungs expelled enough air to power us all the way to the United States.
With my mother getting more anxious about our flight, we finally landed at 3:15, the boarding time of our Boston flight. We boarded the shuttle bus to the main terminal and walking the endless connection hallways came upon the roadblock that is passport control. Avoiding what looked like a tour group that we've seen throughout Italy, we switched lines and made it through, only to see that we needed Gate H43 and we were in G, with H ahead and up the staircase.
I looked back at my mother and thanked God there were moving sidewalks to help us get through the terminals. As beautiful as the Munich airport is, there was no time to enjoy it and we moved as quickly as we could to our plane. Rosemarie was slowing down, the over 100 miles we had walked in Italy making their presence felt.
"Pretend, Phil is at the pit stop and we're in first place," I said trying to keep her mind off the tight connection and on one of our favorite reality shows. She waved me forward so I could at least stop the plane from leaving. One more passport control later and a computer glitch at the gate we were there - or so we thought.
"More stairs?" my mother's tired voice echoed behind me.
Indeed, once through the gate, the plane waited below us and through the long jet way. But we were indeed there, the doors of flight 424 were still open and we walked onto the air conditioned jet. The back of the plane was empty enough that we moved our seats to an entire row. My mom fell asleep almost instantly - and from that, I knew she was tired. She never sleeps on planes. Hours later, we touched down in Boston. We were home. My father greeted us at the door to their house and I think I saw a hint of happiness on his face.
Tomorrow, we will sleep and I'll transfer all the pictures to my mom's digital photo album. Knowing my mom, she'll sit in front of the changing pictures and keep herself entertained for hours. For everyone who came along on this summer vacation, thanks for joining us. I wish you all could have perspired and ate as much as we did for ten days. And I wish you all a trip like this to remember for the rest of your life.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Finito
I suppose we should not have eaten so much, but we have been unable to do that since we first touched down in this country. The bruschetta and olive miste soaked in oil, the tortellini smothered in Bolognese and the crepes stuffed with ricotta and spinach, should have been enough for us. Instead we had, as everyone else does here, the second course. (Yes, I had veal).
My mom and I were quiet at dinner. We’ve run out of things to say, I joked and looking across the table, I wondered if I looked as tired as well. I asked her to name her top five moments from the trip.
“It’s not a test, there’s no wrong answer,” I laughed as she looked as if I were going to grade her.
The David, The Duomo, Crossing the street in Rome, looking at the leaning tower and the Eurostar train rides were all her favorites, though she felt as if she were betraying all the other adventures.
“It’s been so wonderful,” she said to me, and I had us raise our glasses for a toast.
And it wouldn’t have been a dinner without something to look at. The three American families who came in shortly after us were typical ugly Americans. We determined that the trophy wives were here because their husbands cheat regularly on them. Between them, their children ranging from about 15 to 18, took up two tables with the children at one and the adults at the other. We imagined they were from Iowa, but trying to pass as Californians.
The mother of one of the kids continually kept coming over and seeing what they ordered as the kids drank two bottles of wine. Do what the Europeans do, despite the age, we thought.
“He thinks he’s hot shit,” my mom said about the man dressed in white pants and too much hair that you could tell he spent too much time on. His wife had to be the over 40 one stuffed into her white dress.
The group made for an entertaining diversion before we took another late night stroll to try and ease our full stomachs. The streets were packed with vendors selling their counterfeit merchandise, lovers, families, babies - it’s as if more people arrived tonight to bid us good-bye.
We walked as slowly as we had all day. It truly is time to leave, but not before I reflect on what a special opportunity it has been to show Rosemarie all of this. When we return to the states, we have one more memory to make. Eleven years ago, we saw the first Harry Potter together and we will watch the last installment at the very same theater. It will be a full circle moment, one of those silly things I like to mention.
Now, achy, tired and full, with the not quite full moon in the Italian sky, we’re headed back to the bed and breakfast. It’s going to a long walk up those 47 steps to the front door.. I can feel every bone in my body aching and whatever number the scale reflects, I’ll have to work hard to bring back down, knowing that every bite, every conversation, every bottled water, every laugh and every experience in this wonderful country - was worth every bite.
Let There Be Shade?
It is hot. The sun seeks you out here and is relentless in giving you shelter. No wonder everyone gathers to watch it set as it recharges for another day of assault. Anyone who knows me knows that I love the heat. I escape to Palm Springs in the middle of the summer, yet the heat here feels more intense and there is no pool for me to jump in while being served a cocktail. The second you finish a bottle of water, you desperately need another and we have dropped countless euros on aqua minerale today. We've decided the 'con gas' is the way to go today. A little burp action is good for the soul.
After our morning rest, we wanted to celebrate our last full day in this city by enjoying the best pizza we have had here. Located at the exit of the Uffizi, Osteria De' Peccatori is by far, the oiliest and most delicious pie we have eaten. And today, its doors welcomed us with air conditioning. We took a table towards the back, far from the windows where the sun made one more attempt to follow us.
With an insalata mista and a sausage pizza, our last lunch in this city was complete. I pressed down my fork in the pie just so I could see the river of EVOO that rose up to cover the tongs. We are going to miss this, no doubt about it.
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We took our time, savoring every bite and then, immediately buying a water, we headed towards the bus stop so we could revisit Piazzle Michangelo. At the top is a gelato shop with a view of the entire city and we wanted to take one final look at this gorgeous city from the heights.
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This day, however, we took the bus. I was certain we were at the right stop, but as time went on and the heat got more intense, I asked the next bus driver if this went up the mountain. English be damned, it was hot and I spoke what little Italian I could muster to get my question across. An old Italian man at the door told us to get on and take it two more stops to transfer to line 13. Once inside, a small elderly woman spoke to us in broken English and directed us to the correct location. As we exited, she moved her arm in front of her as if she were shooing a fly, pointing in the direction of the stop. Ahead, I saw the bus shelter, turned back and shouted, "grazie," as the little lady disappeared with a smile behind a gated doorway.
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The air conditioned bus arrived and it was a quick ride to the top of the hill. There was just no way we could have survived the walk up this mountain as we did last Tuesday. Our legs are like pasta noodles left too long in the water. At the top, the view was still as breathtaking and after a quick look at The fake David's green ass, we went for the covered area of the gelato shop. At the edge of the cliff, the gelataria has an unobstructed view, but the sun is not to be outsmarted here and it finds you in between the umbrellas that attempt to keep it out of your way. My mom and I moved across the patio and enjoyed a strawberry granite, an espresso frappe and of course, aqua minearle con gas.
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The heat has worn us down and despite thinking we should take the bus, we had no idea of its schedule, so we walked down the steps in the mountain. Along the way, as I saw the hordes of people sweating and stopping on the way up the stairs, I said, out loud, "There is a bus, there is a bus." I have no idea if they understood English, but it kept us entertained.
At the bottom, my mother was still intimated by the traffic, which is nothing like that of Rome. I kept directing her to the sidewalk, as if she were a puppy running off its leash. "Get up there," I said so she would not have to worry about being this close to the passing traffic.
As we neared the bridge that took us over the river, a huge fat and rather stupid tourist was taking a picture of his family on the bridge while he stood in the middle of the road. Sure enough, the little fiat coming right at him screeched to a halt.
My mother called him an idiot, I called him something else.
As we walked, we tried in vain to find the shade, but the sun has deemed that there is none and taunts you to find your way home. We're moving more slowly than ever and the tour groups are back in the piazza. Today, we pushed right through them, there is no time to wait for their endless numbers to pass us by.
I opened the door to our bed and breakfast and shut out the sun. The stone hallway is cooling, but, today, its stairs are just as vicious in its taunting of the salvation that waits for us at the top.
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After our morning rest, we wanted to celebrate our last full day in this city by enjoying the best pizza we have had here. Located at the exit of the Uffizi, Osteria De' Peccatori is by far, the oiliest and most delicious pie we have eaten. And today, its doors welcomed us with air conditioning. We took a table towards the back, far from the windows where the sun made one more attempt to follow us.
With an insalata mista and a sausage pizza, our last lunch in this city was complete. I pressed down my fork in the pie just so I could see the river of EVOO that rose up to cover the tongs. We are going to miss this, no doubt about it.
We took our time, savoring every bite and then, immediately buying a water, we headed towards the bus stop so we could revisit Piazzle Michangelo. At the top is a gelato shop with a view of the entire city and we wanted to take one final look at this gorgeous city from the heights.
This day, however, we took the bus. I was certain we were at the right stop, but as time went on and the heat got more intense, I asked the next bus driver if this went up the mountain. English be damned, it was hot and I spoke what little Italian I could muster to get my question across. An old Italian man at the door told us to get on and take it two more stops to transfer to line 13. Once inside, a small elderly woman spoke to us in broken English and directed us to the correct location. As we exited, she moved her arm in front of her as if she were shooing a fly, pointing in the direction of the stop. Ahead, I saw the bus shelter, turned back and shouted, "grazie," as the little lady disappeared with a smile behind a gated doorway.
The air conditioned bus arrived and it was a quick ride to the top of the hill. There was just no way we could have survived the walk up this mountain as we did last Tuesday. Our legs are like pasta noodles left too long in the water. At the top, the view was still as breathtaking and after a quick look at The fake David's green ass, we went for the covered area of the gelato shop. At the edge of the cliff, the gelataria has an unobstructed view, but the sun is not to be outsmarted here and it finds you in between the umbrellas that attempt to keep it out of your way. My mom and I moved across the patio and enjoyed a strawberry granite, an espresso frappe and of course, aqua minearle con gas.
The heat has worn us down and despite thinking we should take the bus, we had no idea of its schedule, so we walked down the steps in the mountain. Along the way, as I saw the hordes of people sweating and stopping on the way up the stairs, I said, out loud, "There is a bus, there is a bus." I have no idea if they understood English, but it kept us entertained.
At the bottom, my mother was still intimated by the traffic, which is nothing like that of Rome. I kept directing her to the sidewalk, as if she were a puppy running off its leash. "Get up there," I said so she would not have to worry about being this close to the passing traffic.
As we neared the bridge that took us over the river, a huge fat and rather stupid tourist was taking a picture of his family on the bridge while he stood in the middle of the road. Sure enough, the little fiat coming right at him screeched to a halt.
My mother called him an idiot, I called him something else.
As we walked, we tried in vain to find the shade, but the sun has deemed that there is none and taunts you to find your way home. We're moving more slowly than ever and the tour groups are back in the piazza. Today, we pushed right through them, there is no time to wait for their endless numbers to pass us by.
I opened the door to our bed and breakfast and shut out the sun. The stone hallway is cooling, but, today, its stairs are just as vicious in its taunting of the salvation that waits for us at the top.
We Are Officially Spent
It is our last full day in Italy and it's pretty obvious by the speed we are moving that we are officially spent. I swear, it is getting hotter by the day and I can see why no one wants to come here in August and the locals leave the city. When I return, for sure, I will come in the fall.
Right now, we are in our bed and breakfast resting and it's only 11:30 in the morning. This is a first, for we've never been back to the room until at least five o'clock. With the sun beating down, the tour groups clogging the streets and our sheer exhaustion, we need an hour or two rest before heading out again.
We started our day with, of course, some cannolli, an espresso fredo and freshly squeezed orange juice, which, believe it or not, in the restaurants in Los Angeles is hard to find. (Get an orange, people and squeeze it.) Sitting down on the patio, I didn't even care about the cover charge, we just needed to sit. And, of course, we could not resist the bambolino - a sugar coated donut topped and stuffed with lemon meringue.
Slowly, we got up and walked close to the buildings for the small piece of shade they provided. We wandered through another open air market and into, what could be described as a farmer's market. Here, rows and rows of fresh meat and poultry stands, along with pasta, oils and vegetables were for sale and on display. Butchers were slicing tripe, something it seems my mother's father loved to put in his sauce. It looked like a shag carpet, but it seems it's the inside of the cow's stomach.
"My father had strong teeth," Rosemarie said. "He could eat anything."
Outside the vendors were bartering, calling us to their stands. If it were the fall, perhaps the leather goods would be harder to resist. Right now, the air conditioning in our room is all we care about. Maybe a quick 30 minute nap and we'll have the energy for lunch.
Right now, we are in our bed and breakfast resting and it's only 11:30 in the morning. This is a first, for we've never been back to the room until at least five o'clock. With the sun beating down, the tour groups clogging the streets and our sheer exhaustion, we need an hour or two rest before heading out again.
We started our day with, of course, some cannolli, an espresso fredo and freshly squeezed orange juice, which, believe it or not, in the restaurants in Los Angeles is hard to find. (Get an orange, people and squeeze it.) Sitting down on the patio, I didn't even care about the cover charge, we just needed to sit. And, of course, we could not resist the bambolino - a sugar coated donut topped and stuffed with lemon meringue.
Slowly, we got up and walked close to the buildings for the small piece of shade they provided. We wandered through another open air market and into, what could be described as a farmer's market. Here, rows and rows of fresh meat and poultry stands, along with pasta, oils and vegetables were for sale and on display. Butchers were slicing tripe, something it seems my mother's father loved to put in his sauce. It looked like a shag carpet, but it seems it's the inside of the cow's stomach.
"My father had strong teeth," Rosemarie said. "He could eat anything."
Outside the vendors were bartering, calling us to their stands. If it were the fall, perhaps the leather goods would be harder to resist. Right now, the air conditioning in our room is all we care about. Maybe a quick 30 minute nap and we'll have the energy for lunch.
Monday, July 11, 2011
The Sun Sets Just Look More Beautiful Here
If the scale tells me I've gained ten pounds I will not be surprised. I feel as if I have not stopped eating since we stepped off the plane one week ago. But before the last caloric intake of the evening, my mother and I went for a stroll along the Ponte Vecchio at sunset. I didn't plan on it being that time, but I'll take credit for it just the same. The bridge across the River Arno was crowded with people jockeying for a postion to watch as the sun dipped below the horizon and sprayed its golden rays across the scenery. With the river glowing in the foreground, we watched the sun make its final appearance of the day. Except for the sun setting on the island of Santorini, I can't remember a more stunning view.
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Walking to the other side of the river, I nixed a few of the restuarants as either too expensive or too touristy. On the way back, we found a perfect little place down a quiet side street. I've found the best one are off the main streets and areas. Trust me on that. We were enticed in, not only by the menu, but also because it was air conditioned. You know we have been here a long time when the thrill of eating outside holds no appeal and the thought of a cool and crisp dining room outweighs all other decisions.
The place was perfect - uncrowded, great lighting and cool air the second we walked in the door. Our waitress was the ultimate Italian girl and the complete opposite of our quiet and reserved hostess from last night. This one would fit right in at any Tella gathering.
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Since we've been here, neither one of us has had lasagna, so tonight, we ordered it as one of the first courses. It did not disappoint. What surprised me most was that there was no sauce - only mounds of melted cheese among the pasta. We should have stopped with the first course tonight, but we went on to order - you guessed it - a veal steak for me and chicken with peppers (pepperoni) for my mother.
In the midst of our queit dinner, a truckload of Turkish tourists descended upon the restaurant. There was activity everywhere, from people moving chairs, our perfect Italian hostess directing traffic to the upstairs dining room while trying to arrange tables on the main floor, to loud parents trying to control their unruly children. I made a joke about how quiet it once was and our server said something in Italian that I could tell meant she was not in the mood for any of them.
And as quick as they ate, the bank of travelers left. All at once they released their hold on us as though they were the Israelites being liberated from Egypt on the promise of the land of milk and honey. The restaurant became, once again - peaceful and quiet. Our waitress could not have been happier - and neither could we.
Now we had time to relish dessert: panna cotta - Italy's version of flan drizzled with carmael sauce. Sweet and similar to a pudding, only thicker, the dessert was the latest in our culinary conquests.
The meal had ended and we were disappointed that we could not tip. We loved how pleasant and accomodating the staff was and I somehow wanted to reward our waitress. I resisted, but mainly because I did not want to get an email from my friend Cinzia who would surely chastise me for leaving money behind. I would have taken our waitress home to meet my mother, but she had already done that.
We went out in the still busy streets, took a stroll around The Duomo and headed to bed.
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My mother, for some unknown reason, will now not stop talking. It's as if she thinks someone is actually going to answer her.
"I'm hot," she said doing God knows what in our tiny room.
"That's because you are expelling hot air - be quiet and go to bed."
"If I don't talk, you'll tell people I never say anything."
"Oh, trust me," I said. "They know all about you, now go to sleep so I can concentrate."
Of course, she is up and doing her word search puzzles, which means any minute now, the book will fall to the side of the bed and she'll be asleep at last.
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Walking to the other side of the river, I nixed a few of the restuarants as either too expensive or too touristy. On the way back, we found a perfect little place down a quiet side street. I've found the best one are off the main streets and areas. Trust me on that. We were enticed in, not only by the menu, but also because it was air conditioned. You know we have been here a long time when the thrill of eating outside holds no appeal and the thought of a cool and crisp dining room outweighs all other decisions.
The place was perfect - uncrowded, great lighting and cool air the second we walked in the door. Our waitress was the ultimate Italian girl and the complete opposite of our quiet and reserved hostess from last night. This one would fit right in at any Tella gathering.
Since we've been here, neither one of us has had lasagna, so tonight, we ordered it as one of the first courses. It did not disappoint. What surprised me most was that there was no sauce - only mounds of melted cheese among the pasta. We should have stopped with the first course tonight, but we went on to order - you guessed it - a veal steak for me and chicken with peppers (pepperoni) for my mother.
In the midst of our queit dinner, a truckload of Turkish tourists descended upon the restaurant. There was activity everywhere, from people moving chairs, our perfect Italian hostess directing traffic to the upstairs dining room while trying to arrange tables on the main floor, to loud parents trying to control their unruly children. I made a joke about how quiet it once was and our server said something in Italian that I could tell meant she was not in the mood for any of them.
And as quick as they ate, the bank of travelers left. All at once they released their hold on us as though they were the Israelites being liberated from Egypt on the promise of the land of milk and honey. The restaurant became, once again - peaceful and quiet. Our waitress could not have been happier - and neither could we.
Now we had time to relish dessert: panna cotta - Italy's version of flan drizzled with carmael sauce. Sweet and similar to a pudding, only thicker, the dessert was the latest in our culinary conquests.
The meal had ended and we were disappointed that we could not tip. We loved how pleasant and accomodating the staff was and I somehow wanted to reward our waitress. I resisted, but mainly because I did not want to get an email from my friend Cinzia who would surely chastise me for leaving money behind. I would have taken our waitress home to meet my mother, but she had already done that.
We went out in the still busy streets, took a stroll around The Duomo and headed to bed.
My mother, for some unknown reason, will now not stop talking. It's as if she thinks someone is actually going to answer her.
"I'm hot," she said doing God knows what in our tiny room.
"That's because you are expelling hot air - be quiet and go to bed."
"If I don't talk, you'll tell people I never say anything."
"Oh, trust me," I said. "They know all about you, now go to sleep so I can concentrate."
Of course, she is up and doing her word search puzzles, which means any minute now, the book will fall to the side of the bed and she'll be asleep at last.
Firenze, How We've Missed You
The Eurostar was, as usual, right on schedule. I love this country, tardiness is not tolerated and because of that, I think I am eternally in love with it. It wasn't much cooler in Florence when we arrived and I had to buy some water as soon as we hit the pavement. It's Monday afternoon and the city is alive with activity. It's been a week since we've arrived in Italy and I can honestly say that the trip has not flown by quickly. We've savored every hour and every minute and still have one more day left.
Even my mother knows her way to Dei Mori now, which has me a little worried. She is always geographically challenged, but, I think, in reality she just knows the way to the cannolli shop.
Arriving back at Dei Mori, the large family we encountered the other day seem to have checked out and a different set have taken their place. I didn't stop to exchange pleasantries, since all I could think of was a refreshing shower that would not cause bodily harm. Then, first thing first - we needed some nourishment.
Right on the corner is Pizzeria Toto. We've passed it several times over the course of the week and I wish we had gone inside sooner. The slices are affordable - 3.50e compared to over 5e in Venice. I could not resist the spicy salami (never order pepperoni here, for that means actual peppers) while my mom had just cheese. It was almost a slap in the Venetian face as we savored the oily goodness.
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With something to tide us over until dinner, we decided to wander around the shopping areas that we've missed so far. As luck would have it, we wandered past a huge line on the street that wound its way to a doorway with the name Grom over the top. It seems we have stumbed into the best gelato in all of the city and who knew that it would be so close to The Duomo. Now, this, my dear Venetians, (okay, I will stop now), is how gelato should taste. Soft, creamy and melting almost instantly the second we got outside - the pistachio was rich with nuts and the stratciatello full of thick chocolate chunks. Before there was even a hint of a gelato puddle in my cup, it was devoured.
Tonight, we'll wander yet again to find dinner, but I'm thinking we may go back to La Posta, which remains our favorite restaurant.
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Even my mother knows her way to Dei Mori now, which has me a little worried. She is always geographically challenged, but, I think, in reality she just knows the way to the cannolli shop.
Arriving back at Dei Mori, the large family we encountered the other day seem to have checked out and a different set have taken their place. I didn't stop to exchange pleasantries, since all I could think of was a refreshing shower that would not cause bodily harm. Then, first thing first - we needed some nourishment.
Right on the corner is Pizzeria Toto. We've passed it several times over the course of the week and I wish we had gone inside sooner. The slices are affordable - 3.50e compared to over 5e in Venice. I could not resist the spicy salami (never order pepperoni here, for that means actual peppers) while my mom had just cheese. It was almost a slap in the Venetian face as we savored the oily goodness.
"Now, that's a piece of pizza," my mother said wiping the oil from her face and walking to our favorite pastry shop. She was in luck as there was one cannolli left in the case. In addition to that, I ordered an iced espresso
With something to tide us over until dinner, we decided to wander around the shopping areas that we've missed so far. As luck would have it, we wandered past a huge line on the street that wound its way to a doorway with the name Grom over the top. It seems we have stumbed into the best gelato in all of the city and who knew that it would be so close to The Duomo. Now, this, my dear Venetians, (okay, I will stop now), is how gelato should taste. Soft, creamy and melting almost instantly the second we got outside - the pistachio was rich with nuts and the stratciatello full of thick chocolate chunks. Before there was even a hint of a gelato puddle in my cup, it was devoured.
Tonight, we'll wander yet again to find dinner, but I'm thinking we may go back to La Posta, which remains our favorite restaurant.
The Mayor of S. Stefano
It’s Monday morning and we are headed back to Florence. One look at the bathroom today and I forbade Rosemarie to even attempt to take a shower. The tub is so high that even I have trouble getting in and out of it. With no shower curtain and nothing to hold on to for support, it’s a slippery trap for anyone at any age. I insisted that she sit on the edge of the ceramic death trap and clean up as best she could before we make our way to the train station.
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Packing up, we headed out - but not before I mentioned how wonderful it is to have everything paid for on this trip. I’d booked and paid for this hotel as well as all our train travel months ago and the only reason euros leave our wallet is to buy food and trinkets. This is the only way to vacation.
Venice during the early morning is not Florence. If the street cleaners came out over night, there’s no evidence of it and we walked through the quiet alleys to take a tour of some areas that I was too tired to show her yesterday. We wound up in S. Stefano, a square I had stayed at in 1999 on my very first trip to Italy.
Every morning, my mom has had a cannolli and what the hell, I thought, let’s give it a try here. Alas, Venice, you cut me to the quick and disappoint me once again with your gastronomic attempts. More like a pastry shell stuffed with wedding cake frosting, we took one bite and deposited it into the nearest bin.
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It was already hot and we were quickly getting dehydrated so we sat at a small café, places that I will miss terribly when I am back in America. Overlooking S. Stefano, we sat next to an old Italian woman, who no doubt, could be the mayor of this piazza. Bent over scratching her lottery tickets, something that immediately reminded us of our Aunt Lil, the woman’s unkempt white hair and flowered dress completed the picture.
All around us, the square was becoming alive with activity and nothing escaped the mayor’s gaze. Although I don’t speak Italian, it was clear the woman was complaining about the unruly children milling about in the square.
“They don’t listen to their mother,” she said to us, putting her thumb against her index finger and moving her hand back and forth. “Parle Italiano?”
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I answered her that we did not, but I understood when she asked if Rosemarie was my mother.
“Si,si,” I said as she gave us a big smile and pointed to the similarities in our faces. I look exactly like my father, so it was nice to know that the mayor of S Stefano saw a resemblance.
We finished our beverages and then set off for the Rialto to catch our water bus to the train station. Now, on the Eurostar back to Firenze, I am already dreaming of the pizza that we are going to have for lunch. Arriverderci Venezia. Il dio lo benedice.
Packing up, we headed out - but not before I mentioned how wonderful it is to have everything paid for on this trip. I’d booked and paid for this hotel as well as all our train travel months ago and the only reason euros leave our wallet is to buy food and trinkets. This is the only way to vacation.
Venice during the early morning is not Florence. If the street cleaners came out over night, there’s no evidence of it and we walked through the quiet alleys to take a tour of some areas that I was too tired to show her yesterday. We wound up in S. Stefano, a square I had stayed at in 1999 on my very first trip to Italy.
Every morning, my mom has had a cannolli and what the hell, I thought, let’s give it a try here. Alas, Venice, you cut me to the quick and disappoint me once again with your gastronomic attempts. More like a pastry shell stuffed with wedding cake frosting, we took one bite and deposited it into the nearest bin.
It was already hot and we were quickly getting dehydrated so we sat at a small café, places that I will miss terribly when I am back in America. Overlooking S. Stefano, we sat next to an old Italian woman, who no doubt, could be the mayor of this piazza. Bent over scratching her lottery tickets, something that immediately reminded us of our Aunt Lil, the woman’s unkempt white hair and flowered dress completed the picture.
All around us, the square was becoming alive with activity and nothing escaped the mayor’s gaze. Although I don’t speak Italian, it was clear the woman was complaining about the unruly children milling about in the square.
“They don’t listen to their mother,” she said to us, putting her thumb against her index finger and moving her hand back and forth. “Parle Italiano?”
I answered her that we did not, but I understood when she asked if Rosemarie was my mother.
“Si,si,” I said as she gave us a big smile and pointed to the similarities in our faces. I look exactly like my father, so it was nice to know that the mayor of S Stefano saw a resemblance.
We finished our beverages and then set off for the Rialto to catch our water bus to the train station. Now, on the Eurostar back to Firenze, I am already dreaming of the pizza that we are going to have for lunch. Arriverderci Venezia. Il dio lo benedice.
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